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The Host
Thirty years earlier
“What’re you reading?”
“Oh, nothing.”
Quick fingers grabbed the book away. “Liar!”
She crossed her arms. “So?”
“Do they know you’re reading this?”
“What if they do?
“I think you’re lying again.” Her brother regarded her with a smirk. “I bet they don’t. Maybe I should tell.”
“Tell them what? That I’m sitting peacefully reading a book once I’ve finished all my work? Oh, yeah, that’ll go over real well.”
He tossed it in the air, caught it. “Where’d you get it, anyway? I didn’t think we had any of this stuff around the house.”
“Please. Like I’d tell you.”
He only shrugged. “Your funeral…”
“The library. Don’t tell.”
“Fine. But you know it’s useless. It’ll only distract you. It’s not real.”
“Yeah, I know.”
It’s not as if he had a choice. No-one ever knew when the horns would sound, when the shadows would flicker over the land. A few predicted the occurrences, but those were all old crackpots who had smoked too much weed in their youth – and maybe still today, too – anyway they were nearly always wrong. Just this morning he’d heard one say that today would be clear.
He tried to hide, of course. He wasn’t one of the queer folk what clustered outside and hoped – no, not him. The land was lovely, it was, and it didn’t feel right that a passing shade should take it away, not when it called so.
There was a little stream not too far off from his home with the prettiest little fall he’d ever seen. Sometimes one could see fisher-birds there, and he’d wanted to watch. Sure enough, one had come today, and made a bright speck of itself flicking against the floating fall-leaves. If only he could bring his mother here–! She might laugh, and tell him a story of people flying with cloth wings over bigger waters than this, and explain again about the vast creatures that lived in her o-shun. Ma would love this place, if she’d ever leave Stone’s safety, just for a day, maybe right after they passed…
Then his quick sky-glances had caught a ripple, a tiny eddy far off of color and movement, and he’d just froze stiff. So close!
This was bad. He’d been out before, once, when they’d come. Lucky then he’d been near a cave, and had hidden deep enough that they couldn’t see him, couldn’t ‘path him. It was near an hour he’d lain there, barely breathing, trying to sleep or at least slow his heart. At one point a lithe form had hovered just inside the entrance, blinking, and he’d dared not even to suck in air, he was that scared. But it had shuddered once, and left, and then he didn’t see no more ‘til they came again a season later, and that time he was safe in deep stone.
Was there enough time? A little cave was nearer than home, but opposite, and shallow – and the Hunt was already close. It moved faster than he could run, he knew, but this wasn’t so far from home. If only there were shelter ‘tween here and there –
Of course there wasn’t. Better safe than sorry. If they’d not taken him last time, maybe they’d miss now too. He rose, weaving through the trees and scattered rocks, crossing the ripplet without trying to find a stone-bridge, even though he knew he’d have to beat his shoes out later. Ma got fussier than a wet cat when someone tracked mud in. Still and all, that was that, and better than being taken.
He tripped on a root and said a word Ma would have smacked him a good one for, but slowed down a bit after that. Even if it looked like he was heading straight into them, the little cleft was near enough so’s he could take a bit of time. And he’d better, too, or he was going to get himself scratched up something fierce.
Then there was stone in front of him, and he flung himself down and wriggled into that narrow place until he was wedged in nice as you like. Boulders on most all sides, but he’d forgotten that a crack of light came through the top. That could be bad. But there was no time for to find another place. All to do now was slow down, breathe slow, deep, easy – try to blank, sleep was good, they couldn’t ‘path you so easy when you slept…
He’d just gotten himself calmed down, half-sleeping almost, when the light coming through started flickering worse than a candle in a draft. Anybody, even the fools, could tell you what that meant, and he lost the half-sleep. Stone and Water, but it was near impossible to stay calm when they were so very close to him. If only he’d been able to fall asleep! Well, no use for it now. Naught for it but to be silent – maybe think of the waterfall, and the burbling pond below, with stained-glass fall-leaves twirling on the surface (he’d seen some once, real stuff, in the side of mountain that someone had cut away) – or better yet turn to stones and caves and deep places where they couldn’t find you, ancient granite and clear crystal –
-only the fairest crystal he’d ever set eyes on was a bead of water, trembling at leaf-tip in dawn-light, lit up brighter than the Dog at night, before it spilled; and what granite was as ageless as butterflies, gone and come again each year, while it ran with water and crumbled away? No rock he’d touched could move like the little cats he’d seen and Ma said she’d kept in her own house for children, slipping away into the deep shades of the forests. And every summer the flowers had more color to them than any number of polished gems –
Slow, smooth, slip away from their ‘pathing into memories and dreams – don’t notice, don’t react to the shadow that stops above you, to the faint strange tickling on the inside of your skin. It’s not safe.
A lithe form, there, just a little off. He could see it through the cracks in the stone – was it a dream, or no? He stared. Most like it wouldn’t path him, calm as he was, and he didn’t think it would see him. The clothes Ma gave him were old and made of hide, not too different from the sunlit boulders. But it turned, then, and stared at the boulders, and he pulled back a bit so that his skin wasn’t visible, only the hide.
Suddenly then there was more light where he was, and he blinked. How’d that happen? Strange, and he’d seen some things he couldn’t explain, and Ma swore her stories were all truth. Something tingled along the inside of his skin, the inside of his skull – he stiffened. They ‘pathed him, he knew it, and then there was more light. He jerked his head up and saw one, right where the huge boulders used to be.
He sounded like one of those little birds caught in a net, panting, gulping air, and felt about as scared. It looked down at him, near as tall as the whole heap of boulders had been before it started picking them apart, and he shivered once. His legs tensed up, maybe he could run, hide somewhere else, but then it caught his eyes with huge bright ones like a stew of melting gold. All of a sudden that tickle turned in a pounding, like standing in sprinkling rain and then dashing under a waterfall (he’d done that, once, and hadn’t tried it again) and he went limp all over.
The calm he worked for was gone. Now the only thing there was fear, and he couldn’t stop it. Huge claws, bigger than the ones on that bear he’d seen awhile back, moved more of the boulders, and he’d have shivered if he could move at all, terrified. Then a slender thing with cobweb wings and cloud-clothes touched him with a pale hand, and that was gone too, like a fall-leaf under the waterfall.
Somewhere he felt himself lifted by enormous clawed talons, caught a glimpse of a snake-neck and great golden wings, and a man astride, and then –
Twenty years earlier
There was an African violet in her bedroom. The books she’d read said they were hardy things and would live without much care. Just make sure to water it every so often, and it would be fine. It sat on the desk next to the computer. Occasionally the cat would nibble at its leaves.
There was a window in her bedroom, too, in case of fire, and a ladder to the side. For the most part, the blinds were closed; there was nothing opposite but the side of the next house. When she needed light or wind, she flicked the remote for the fan.
At the base of the apartment was a tree, trimmed and perfect, and a little patch of grass before the sidewalk started. Every morning and evening, the street clogged with cars, and she would curse the traffic that made her late to work. The business frowned on late employees.
Today there was a flash of white out of the corner of her eyes, and she looked to the side – there was nothing there but a man walking along, head ducked, impatient. The glint must have come from the metal buttons. Of course it had.
He shivered. Sleeping out in the open like this was dangerous. Ma’d have a fit over this one; he’d best get back. Stretched, sat up – then he nearly jumped out of his skin. What was this place? There was no valley he’d seen that had flowers like this, or long ropes made of plants. Too much light in it, off it, but there were plants that had leaves like swords, branching off again and again into tiny leaves, deeper with shadows than a fox’s den. But his knuckle stung when he nipped at it, so he knew he wasn’t dreaming.
Strange. Anyway there was no way around it: he hauled himself to his feet and shook to get the worst of the dirt off. Almost he hit himself, then. His clothes were gone. Fool! What’d he been doing to wind up asleep in the middle of nowhere, outside, and without his clothes to boot?
There were his clothes, though, hung nice on a sapling’s branch. He reached for them, hesitated, and smeared a hand on his back to make sure the dirt was most off, but it came back clean. When he looked down he was cleaner than Ma’s dishes, though she’d last called him filthy, far as he could remember. His knuckle got bit then hard enough to leave marks on it, but he shrugged the clothes on anyway. They were softer than he remembered, too.
At the foot of the tree was a little wood cup, smooth as glass, with curled markings all around the edge. The stuff in it tasted like honey, only clear and light as water, and he swallowed it down.
He stepped past the screen of trees real careful, feet bare and tender, but the grass was soft. Laughter, real high, almost like a little kid or a bird, drifted past. He turned to the side, trying to see what had made the noise, and nearly ran smack-dab into a butterfly. It was a big lovely purple thing, and his eyes crossed trying to keep it in sight before it flittered off. The laugh came again, and someone singing to a tune he’d not heard before. His feet twitched without his say-so, wanting to dance to that song.
A hummingbird hovered in front of him, darted about his head, and settled for a moment on his shoulder before flashing away. He watched it go.
The shadows wouldn’t tell him where the sun was, and he didn’t know which way to go, so he spun around with his eyes shut tight and pointed. There was nothing there that wasn’t as strange and fair as the rest of the place, and he started walking, picking a path through the flowers. Better if he got home before dark; no telling how long he’d been out here.
He frowned. Why couldn’t he remember how he got here? Last he could think was back under stone with Ma, not this place. He’d know this if he’d seen it before, surer than stone was deep.
Twenty years earlier
Wings fluttered just out of sight to the side. When she turned, a butterfly danced off, a great patch of purple and gold. Behind her, someone laughed – but there was no-one there when she checked.
That night on the news, the anchorman paused, just for a moment, swiping his hand across his eyes and shaking his head. He blinked, and, only for a second or so, his eyes followed something that didn’t appear on the camera.
“In other news, some seem to think Halloween’s coming a little early this year. We’ve had reports come in of faeries and other strange creatures all week long. Visitors to the zoo were surprised yesterday by an unplanned addition to the lion’s cage, and some claim that the animal was deformed. The pictures, unfortunately, seem to have turned out blank, but they aren’t letting that stop them! One of our guests tonight, Mrs. Jean Smith, claims to have seen a dragon flying over her apartment. Mrs. Smith?
“Yes, thank you. I’d just been out walking Nelly, and do you know, I couldn’t believe my eyes…”
The light was going, and it was harder to see to walk. It was bad to be out at night. You could disappear, then, and no-one would ever know why. Ma'd be worried if he didn't get back – most like she was scared now, if he'd not gone back before.
His foot dipped into a little hidden moss-hollow and he fell. The ground wasn't so hard as stone, and he couldn't see no rocks, but it stole the wind out of him still. He'd tried to break it with his hands; when he sat up and looked they were scratched and red, and stung like little pins.
Something moved in the corner of his eye. He turned his head, saw nothing. But when he looked front of him, he startled, shoving back, trying to get away. How'd it gotten so close? He'd not seen the Host riding or the shadows moving on the ground, but here it was, and he didn't know how he was going to hide this time, when he'd not seen any stone since he'd woke -
There was laughter again behind, and his head swivelled to find it, feared, all of a sudden, of what it might be. But everywhere then there was motion, only he couldn't see any of it, shadows darting to the side and behind. He jerked, not sure which way to go, and the one there in front moved, slow, and he scrabbled backwards, breathing hard. Then he'd backed into a tree, and couldn't move.
It laughed, and the sound of it made him shiver. The inside of his skin itched, tingling, and he froze, remembering. Ma'd be right to worry now – if he wasn't et yet, he'd be soon, and that explained the bit of the Host he'd seen above. They were stalking him like a tufted cat after a rabbit away from its warrens now that he'd been caught.
His body didn't want to move, and he didn't know what to do either but shiver there against the tree. But it drifted a little closer, and then closer, pausing every so often, and all of a sudden was there, right above him, staring down, and he tried to dart away but stumbled and ended sprawled on the grass near where he'd been. He curled himself into a little ball and shuddered.
Then it touched his head and stroked down his skull and neck, and he relaxed because he couldn't do anything else. There was a soft laugh again; it took his wrists and pulled them out away from where he'd curled, turning them over. He heard some kind of warbling, like a bird or a little brook with rocks in it, and then there was another one, crouched beside him like a pouncing fox. Fingers drifted over his palms. That stung bad, and he flinched, hands tightening, but his fingers were pried back open, and something cool was smoothed over the scratched skin.
It let go his hands, and he pulled them back in fast. But nothing else happened. This couldn’t be right, not if what Ma and the others said was right. The Host would get you, it would, and then you were dead or good as gone. They didn’t say nothing, though, about scraped hands that didn’t hurt after.
Twenty years earlier
There was a scream outside of her window. She ignored it. There was nothing she could do, and so she flicked on the television. The African violet on the dresser was drooping brown leaves. Gold flashed across the sky, and she stood up to pull the blinds shut.
The news came on. “This is Rob Smith reporting live from Central Park. Chaos seems to be reigning here, as city officials work with the military to form evacuation plans. I’m here where the faeries first started showing, and you can see them in the background behind the police officers. We don’t know exactly how many people have gone missing yet, but we think we know what’s taking them.” The camera switched over to a few seconds of recorded film – an enormous flying creature stooped on a running girl and snatched her up in massive talons. “None of the missing have been found. We’re hoping for the best, but we fear that-”
She switched off the television and went to sit on her bed. She’d known that little girl. She recognized the creatures out of the books, too, the ones that were stories for little kids who didn’t know any better, the ones that were useless. But they were here.
“They’re not real. They’re not real. Not real. Not real. Not real…”
He remembered little bright lights in the sky where the sun should have been. Ma had told him about them, once – called them stars. The shadows where the bigger one slid on the green were softer than stone. Nobody was supposed to be able to rest out like this. Green all around, all open, nowhere closed, no place safe enough. Right there, right in plain open sight, part of the Host, and how was he s’posed to get away? He slept.
A bit of water slid off a leaf-tip and splashed on his face, and he twitched awake. It was bright out, like light coming from everywhere at once, only there was no fog or mist to make it so strange. At the foot of the tree was a little cup with something clear in it. He swallowed it down.
One of them appeared out of the green, circling, darting about him almost like some huge butterfly. Ma would’ve said to run, but that didn’t work, he knew now, not when they could make him stop with just a touch. This one clapped its hands at him and pulled him along ‘til he started after. That was good, maybe, because it touched his head before flitting back along.
Then something tall rose out of the green and he stopped in his tracks, because there it was, huge and gold, all snake-neck and wings like the bats that got into the caves. He tried to run then, Host or no – no way he was going to stand there ‘til he got snapped up – but the other one appeared in front of him. Backtrack fast, but it didn’t work, and then he was dazed, being tugged back toward the thing. It opened an eye and caught his, bright as early sun on black-eyed Susans.
Why wasn’t it moving? He stumbled closer, trying not to, nearly falling. The one pulling him let go all of a sudden, and he tripped over backward cause of he’d been leaning so hard.
Before he hit the ground that huge creature moved, head darting, and grabbed him. He froze, certain-sure of what was coming, but then he was dropped, and landed right on top of its back. Then there was a swarm of the others, wrapping him in cobwebs that he couldn’t break no matter what he tried, till only his neck could still move, and he shook his head, scared, helpless as a little netted bird –
But then there was a jolt, and they were gone, and on either side of him were huge great wings beating. There was emptiness around him, no green or stone, just air, and he froze. Then the jerking stopped, and it was like he sat still on a rock with a breeze at him. He looked about and shivered for the greatness that he couldn’t understand. Was this what Ma had meant, talking about o-shuns?
And then he looked down, and saw green and purple and threads of silver that flashed in the sun. Over to one side a little flock of birds flashed white, and underneath a cat stretched out asleep. Then, in the distance, was a sliver of blue, bright and deep as sapphires or blue jays, stretching and spreading, and a line of gold where the blue and green met.
And all of a sudden, he forgot how to be afraid.
One day later
She knew it, from the moment she saw the flecks on the horizon. Oh, she had hoped that he would make it back in time: he was swift enough, though no Olympic champion (not that the Olympics were held, any more) – but something in her knew, and knew, too, that it was partly her fault.
He had always loved the green and growing things more than the stone they sheltered in, and even though she knew it to be dangerous, she had encouraged it. But now that same simple pleasure had brought him to their attention.
How she wished they had never returned! She’d enjoyed the stories well enough, as a child herself, and had wondered about them from time to time as a young woman. Until they had had the audacity to come back out of the dim and musty myths, angered that they had been forgotten, taking the young men and women of the nations as weregild for the crime. The disbelief was the collective sin that so enraged them, and in return they took that which would not be forgotten; families would always remember. As would she – her sisters, her husband – her son…
She hated them dearly.
